Before her soul was pulled back to the penthouse, Aracely was forced to follow Cheyenne's car through the dark streets. She watched, helpless, as her sister parked by the East River, walked to the edge of the black water, and tossed in a single high-heeled shoe—Aracely's shoe—and the delicate wristwatch Keenan had given her. The watch glinted once under a distant streetlight before it was swallowed by the river. Only then did Cheyenne drive home, humming softly to herself.
Aracely's soul hovered in the foyer of the penthouse, a silent, invisible wraith. She watched as Keenan walked in, his face unreadable. In his hand, he carried a small, elegant cake box from their favorite bakery. It was a sick, twisted ritual he hadn't broken in six years, a habit he performed even as he despised her. The act itself was a form of cruelty, a reminder of a love that was now just an empty, mocking tradition.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Inside, Cheyenne stood before the vanity mirror. She was wearing Aracely's favorite silk robe, the one the color of champagne. She was practicing Aracely's smile—the shy, hesitant one.
A wave of impotent fury washed over Aracely. She swept into the room, trying to rip the robe from her sister's body, but her hands passed through the fabric like smoke.
Cheyenne picked up Aracely's signature perfume and spritzed it onto her wrists, behind her ears. The movements were so practiced, so deliberate, it was horrifying.
The bedroom door opened. Keenan stood there, the cake box a stark white against his dark suit.
Cheyenne turned, positioning herself so the soft lamplight cast her in shadow. "You're home," she said, her voice a perfect imitation of Aracely's soft, slightly breathless tone.
Keenan placed the cake on the dresser. His voice was flat. "It's our sixth anniversary."
Cheyenne moved toward him, her steps fluid and confident in a way Aracely's never were. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.
Aracely watched, her spectral heart shattering. It was an embrace she had yearned for, begged for, for six long years.
Keenan's body went rigid for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something in his eyes. Then he relaxed, his hand coming up to pat Cheyenne's back in a stiff, awkward gesture.
He looked down at the top of her head. "You changed your perfume," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. "You always said this one was too sweet."
Cheyenne's body tensed, but her voice was smooth. "I wanted a change. Don't you like it?"
He didn't answer. He gently disentangled himself and walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
The door clicked shut.
Cheyenne let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her back was damp with sweat.
Aracely drifted to the bathroom door, a silent sentinel. She could see Keenan's reflection in the mirror as he washed his face, splashing cold water onto his skin. He looked up, meeting his own gaze. His eyes were not tired or sad. They were cold, calculating. Like a predator's.
He pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving quickly across the screen.
Aracely floated closer, peering over his shoulder. It was a text message to an unsaved number.
Watch her every move.
He sent it.
Aracely's soul recoiled. He knew. He had to know. Or was this something else? Another layer to his cruelty?
The bathroom door opened. Keenan emerged, wrapped in a cloud of steam, and got into bed without a word, turning his back to the room.
Cheyenne slipped into the bed beside him, her movements cautious. She lay there, still and silent, until the sound of his deep, even breathing filled the room.
Aracely floated to the side of the bed, a ghost in her own bedroom, watching the woman who had murdered her lie next to the man who had despised her.
The text message. A sliver of impossible hope pierced through her rage. Was he trying to find her? To protect her?
Then the image of her body, cold and empty on a steel table, flooded her mind, and the hope died.
Thunder rumbled outside, and a flash of lightning illuminated the room. It lit up Cheyenne's face, a perfect, sleeping replica of her own.
Keenan, Aracely whispered into the darkness, a soundless plea. That's not me.
In the bed, Keenan's eyes snapped open. They were wide, alert, and utterly devoid of sleep.
